


The Ties That Bind

by eyrist



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Canon-Compliant, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mentions of nooses, Not A Happy Ending, canon-divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25835059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyrist/pseuds/eyrist
Summary: Goro Akechi stopped believing in fairy tales at the tender age of eleven years old— All, except for one.It's just his luck that it kills him, slowly but surely, all the while making him feel alive in ways he'd never thought were possible. It's just his luck that it happens to be with the infamous leader of the Phantom Thieves, who he'd been assigned to capture.It's just his luck in particular, that makes the string around his finger the noose around his neck, all in the same breath.They say that the red string of fate tied one soul to another, no matter the distance nor circumstances of life. Though the string may stretch or tangle, the two, connected by an invisible red knot, will find each other. It didn't matter that it transcended worlds and universes, for it was a destiny written by Fate from the very beginning, all the way to the bitter end.
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro & Persona 5 Protagonist, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43
Collections: Shuake Big Bang 2020





	1. The String Around My Finger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I never asked for your pity.”  
> “Exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [your lips, my lips, apocalypse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sElE_BfQ67s)

Meeting Akira Kurusu felt like a tidal wave. He crashed right into his life, far too much in far too little time.

What piqued Goro Akechi’s interest then, on the day of their meeting amidst the halls of a broadcasting station, might’ve been the glasses perched atop the other boy’s nose. The moment his glance settled upon the dark-haired other with curls that frizzed and whose spine slouched forwards in on himself, Goro thought that he’d been making himself seem small, did all he could to blend into the wall or to hide. The glasses, he thought, were just another thing to keep Akira Kurusu hidden away from the world.

But the revelation of so came not so immediately— Because the moment Kurusu stood up and voiced his firm support for the Phantom Thieves, that entire notion got thrown out the window.

He seemed taller, then: Much broader and bigger than he initially made himself to be. He stood with shoulders squared and with resolve oozing off of him in an aura. His eyes (the ones he so well hid beneath his frames and too-long locks) shone too brightly and seemed to see _through_ things with perfect clarity. They pierced Goro’s own gaze with the intensity of his belief, captivated his curiosity with the duality of man none demonstrated so perfectly like Akira Kurusu had.

Goro could (and would) lie, say that he approached Kurusu for the views that challenged (nay, _invert-mirrored_ ) his— And yet, whatever was left of the fragments of his soul knew that there was something else that drew the detective to the boy, a tug of something deep within his core that demanded he explore the possibilities hidden within one specific delinquent.

And so, even amidst the constant of life and death that clung to his back, he explored just how deep the abyss of Kurusu’s eyes went.

It was often that they found themselves bumping into each other, at first: From train stations on fast-paced mornings, to bakeries on their way home from school or work. When Goro began to frequent a café hidden amongst the twists and turns within the backstreets of Yongen-Jaya, he hadn’t exactly anticipated familiar, black frames to stare back at him one day in the late afternoon.

It began with coffee, semi-regularly sipped in the homey, warm café. Often, Goro remembers those memories with rain, chess.. A kiss, but not really a kiss— at least, not until they found themselves alone in the boy’s attic.

But the story of limbs entangled upon the barely-held together bed, and heat shared where heat should not be, would not come before the long and slow prelude of their friendship. Goro wouldn’t call it a friendship, but Kurusu certainly had no problem in doing so.

During their chess matches, he wasn’t exactly _unkindly_ to the little quips and one-liners Kurusu would shoot at him, almost as if a barrage at times, even. Goro would laugh it off, wave his always-gloved hand as if to dismiss the compliments or the not-too-subtle flirts. Really, he found that Kurusu especially shined when it came to opposing his opinions on things, because it was when his eyes would light up in that split-second, almost angelic glow; When he unfolded his limbs and stood or sat bigger than he’d always make himself seem to be; When his voice turned up in volume, so very different from the hushed, barely-there whispers of his usual responses. It was as if defending the Phantom Thieves’ actions fuelled him in a way, lit a fire within himself that none else could.

And that— That was the exact thing Goro so very loved to see: The flip of a switch, the other side of the coin. The _person_ who saw him with wide, all-seeing, catlike eyes, hidden underneath the thick, black frames of his glasses.

He just wouldn’t admit it to himself until the very _last_ second, would rather ignore that tangled mess of red string forever sitting between them.

Loving Akira Kurusu felt like a flame. He was an inferno right from the very start, burning through Goro yet warming him all the same.

If you asked him why he always felt the need to wear his gloves, he’d say it was to protect himself. Goro would twist the story each time Kurusu asked him.

_It’s because I need to keep my fingerprints off the evidence._

_It’s because I don’t like dirtying my hands._

_It’s because I need to protect myself._

What Goro would never tell him, though, is that he’s been trying to protect himself from the very cat-loving, frizzy-haired boy that sat beside him then. But Kurusu already knew, had an inkling in his gut that told him so. Goro knows that Kurusu knows.

It was a normal afternoon within Café Leblanc when it happened.  
The sun began to dip in the horizon from outside the café walls, yet they talked without another care in the world after the last customer aside from Goro left, and Boss had entrusted Kurusu to lock up behind him once he and Goro were done. They’d been sat before the chessboard as night graced the sky, two cups of coffee set beside each other as their game came to an end.

Kurusu’s hand lingered on the piece Goro had gone to retrieve as they cleaned up: Goro’s king of white held firmly amidst the black of his gloves, whilst the pale skin of Kurusu’s hand covered both.  
It was too quiet in the atmosphere of the café, the air thick and lingering with something unfamiliar; something _unknown_ ; something far too _hot_ as their eyes settled where their hands met. Finally, after what felt like an eternity and a half passed by them, Bordeaux irises settled onto a void of stars and sunlight.  
And the details were too clear in his mind’s eye yet much too foggy all the same. Goro remembers sliding the leathered tip of his finger across Kurusu’s plump bottom lip. He remembers the clumsy way Kurusu’s usually-deft hands switched off the lights to the café. He remembers the stumble of their steps as they climbed the staircase with lips grazing over exposed flesh and hands roaming to places previously-untouched. The tangle of limbs on limbs. The heat where skin met skin. Satisfaction when the ache of his desire buried between Kurusu’s thighs. The fire that spread over his chest, a too-unfamiliar feeling crawling over the hollow space where his heart once was.

That tug in his core once more, a satisfied knot as he laid bare, pressed against Akira Kurusu.

He was a flame Goro couldn’t help but inch nearer towards, the burning fire that his skin can’t help but want to graze against. He was a warmth that comforted Goro yet scared him all the same, for a fire is still a fire— and everyone knew that it was too easy to get burned.

But that didn’t stop him. Goro already planned to gamble his life away, to drown in a sea that didn’t exist if it meant tearing down the empire of the heart of his hatred. What could a little candle flame do that would harm him?

Apparently, it was so much more when it was left around things it could burn.

What was Goro to expect when the flings began? When the night extended and their beds were too empty? It certainly wasn’t for his heartstrings to come alive, nor was it for a bubble of happiness to come welling up within him at every moment spent with Akira.  
It was a slow change, but one that Goro spotted as he looked himself in the mirror after each week.

He’d gone soft. After months with Akira, he found that it wasn’t as easy as it used to be to pull the trigger anymore. His executions stopped becoming as quick and flawless. The blood that stained his uniform started creeping onto his skin, and it bothered him in ways that he never realised were possible. Loki’s whispers started to echo louder into his head, reminding him of looming disappointment, of failure that was certain to befall him should he continue to play house with the bespectacled boy.

Or worse yet, heartbreak like a bullet straight through his chest.


	2. And The Noose Around My Neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’d wait for you to the end.”  
> “You shouldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i'm not in love anymore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VozXezyRzzc)

Loving Goro Akechi was much like a blade. Akira Kurusu knew that he should’ve kept his distance (save himself the pain of getting cut) but that was the thing about love, he guessed— it was sharp and cutting, and yet still, it was also something he kept close to his chest. 

The detective had been the very definition of an enigma wrapped in a riddle and held shut within Pandora’s box. His smiles were pleasant, his words polite, but his gaze was sharp and his wit was nothing short of cunning. He said things that should’ve sounded like they contradicted each other, but when it came through the sweetened honey of his voice, the razor-edge silver tongue he possessed, things clicked right into place.  
He liked his coffee bitter, and yet there was still room for him to be a massive sweet tooth. He solved puzzles like they were nothing with everything he had and yet he always seemed to hold back by just a little bit when it came to chess. He would always reach his hand out, even by just millimetres of distance, and in the same breath, he pulled back just as much if not twice as far.

Every touch felt like it was thought over by the fifth time, and every kiss felt as if he shut himself farther into the confines of his mind, and yet his skin was so sweet and warm and his lips so eager to feel, to _roam_ and accept the droplets of caramel that dripped onto their seams. Akira had never been quite sure how to love Goro Akechi, and maybe what was worse was the fact that he never knew _when_ exactly he fell for the boy.

At first, he was terrified.  
He feared how the seams holding himself together (kept him snug and tightly-woven) so easily ripped at the edges, when it came to Goro; He feared how close he willingly stepped towards that fireball of a boy, that trainwreck he couldn’t tear his eyes away from; He feared, with all of the uncertainty and anxiety in his heart, how Akira himself slipped the masks off his face, peeled back the layers and laid what was left out in the open. He feared Goro Akechi as the detective hunting him and his friends down, the Phantom Thieves that aimed for nothing but justice in a cruel and unfair world— And he feared Goro Akechi, as the boy who held as many secrets as Akira did along with one very important, very _fragile_ thing— his heart. 

But when he crashed and burned, standing in the midst of all that debris and destruction, it all felt so, irrevocably, undeniably _right_.

It felt right to meet the other halfway; It felt right to open his heart along with his arms and accept him fully; It felt right to bare the parts of his soul that he thought he’d forever keep under lock and key, underneath all those chains and blankets, and leave himself vulnerable, unarmed, _seen_ under those sharp and shining (yet ultimately, _tired_ ) red eyes.  
And maybe that was Akira’s mistake (the gravest one he’d made yet), but if you asked him about it, he’d tell you with a smile that it was also the best mistake of his life— And that, too, petrified him to the very core of his being.

Though he slinked into a relationship with the detective anxious and alarmed, his worries and fears soon found themselves melting away to a pit in the back of his head. With each day that Goro Akechi stepped through that door and into Leblanc, Akira was convinced that there was just the tiniest light flickering into existence in his eyes, growing brighter and more genuine every time. With each night he spent in the quiet, comforting space of Akira’s attic, the leader of the Phantom Thieves saw a warmth bloom onto his handsome features, a smile that almost looked genuine pinning further and further up his cheeks. With each raid and mission they went on (stealing hearts, diving ever deeper into Mementos, solving the puzzles and enigmas within Sae Nijima’s casino) he believed that Crow, too, began tearing down the iron walls he so closely and securely used to guard his heart, seal the most of it away and keep it hidden from the world—from _Akira_ —with no exception in sight.

He believed in his lover. In Crow. In _Goro_. He believed that, in their own ways, they were changing his heart, untangling the mess of red string that constantly, continuously, _always,_ sat untouched between them.

Maybe he should’ve been more cautious.

Maybe he could’ve been much more careful.

Maybe he should’ve noticed the noose being tied around his neck.

Loving Goro Akechi was more like a gunshot. He aimed straight for Akira’s willingly-vulnerable heart and Akira was strangely okay with it.

Even sitting, staring up at him, bruised and battered and beaten with his eyes looking past the barrel of the gun, he was okay with it.

Even coming face to face with him amongst an engine room in a ship that didn’t _technically_ exist, he was okay with it.

Even when the brunette draped in black and blue aimed a gun straight at his head, he was okay with it.

What he _wasn’t_ okay with, was when the thick, bulkhead door slammed to the ceiling, taking with it the last images of Goro Akechi.

He was supposed to be the traitor. He was _supposed_ to be the enemy that also broke Akira Kurusu’s heart. He wasn’t supposed to be the one that saved them all.

He wasn’t supposed to have died.

He wasn’t supposed to have cut off his end of the red string to untangle it.


	3. Are One And The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [if invisible lines lead your way back to me..](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=asuA2-pbch0)

Tokyo was an unchanging city, for the most part. It didn’t care much about the happenings of the day to day, the meagre little things, the tragedies that walked its streets. Some would say those tragedies had names, but Akira still recognised them as _people_ all the same. Though pain forever singed at his heart, nothing would change— Tokyo wouldn’t bow for anything, so who was to say it would yield for the former leader of the Phantom Thieves?

No matter how much he forced his will upon the city, it would never resurface the name it once sang with praise: The name that, even without three years’ time, had disappeared into the murky ripples of the water as quickly as it’d risen to fame. Goro Akechi had been long presumed dead, a missing person case gone cold just months after it had been proposed, and though Akira had watched the event unfold before his very eyes, Tokyo would never know the truth.  
Tokyo would never know how he chose death over them, how his sacrifice had saved the city and its tragedies, nor will _his_ truth ever see the light of day. Akira felt bitter about it mostly, even if they’d kept the promise they made to him and made his father succumb to the misdeeds he’d collected. Though Goro Akechi had been avenged, it didn’t do much to fill the gap torn straight from Akira’s chest, a hole left where his heart once was.

But Tokyo was an unchanging city. It didn’t care about the walking tragedy named Akira Kurusu.

It would maybe be called _foolhardy_ to walk the streets late at night, unarmed and without company beside him, but it was only when the sun had dipped behind the horizon did Akira feel even a sliver of his old self seep back into his soul. The nights were something that comforted him somehow. It made his senses heighten and his instincts to stand on edge, a little bit of how he used to feel on a constant when he wore the mask called “ _Joker_.”  
Years after the fall of The Metaverse, he never felt the same when the realisation slapped him across the face: How he’d never again be able to turn into that alter ego he so comfortably fit into. Late nights and shady streets could only do as much as they could to feed into his mini-fantasy of strolling through Mementos once again, and because Akira didn’t have anything better to do with his time, he often found himself walking along Tokyo, in and out of jazz bars and passing by the friends he’d once recognised as his confidants.

It was well past midnight when he found himself settled into the corner seat of a bar, the same joint he and Goro had more than once visited in the past. Three drinks in and still feeling sober, he wondered when he began taking up drinking late at night to ease the pain that continued to stab at his heart. 

Maybe he thought that filling it with alcohol would help— even if it spilled through the barely-glued-together cracks in-between each broken shard. 

Behind him, the band on-stage had begun playing another tune— something jazzy, a slow ballad of synthesiser and drums. Akira only pulled the hood further down his face, not wanting to hear that familiar song again and yet also not wanting to leave. A strange tug in his gut forced him onto his seat, yelled at him not to leave, squeezed at the muscle beating like war drums within his chest. In the back of his head, he thought it was Arsène gluing him to the spot, had managed to chuckle a small laugh at himself just before lyrics floated into the air.

_“Where have you been? Been searchin’ all along—”_

And when he heard that voice (like a bird singing its sweet melodies in the morning) he couldn’t find it in himself to move, let alone _breathe_.

_“Came facing twilight on and on, without a clue.”_

Because it couldn’t be.

_“Without a sight,”_

There was no way.

_“Without grasping yet.”_

Akira _knew_ there was no possible way.

_“The real question to be asked, where have I been?”_

What was it that made him frozen as a statue there? What made his grip tighten upon the glass of his rum and coke? Was it the alcohol finally doing its job, the music that gripped at his heart? Akira felt the muscles in his neck tensing, like a noose circled his throat, and maybe it was from _forcing himself_ to not move that did it.

He’d had cases like this before, _far_ too many times. There would be a brunette in the crowd, leather gloves that looked familiar on Leblanc’s counter, a laugh like _his_ from a few booths behind Akira at the diner— and each and every single time, Akira reached out to those little fragments of who he thought it was, of that same, painful hope still sitting deep within his core; Each and every single time, though, he’d find himself with head bowed in apology and flames set upon the hope he clung to.

Because hope was a much-too-flammable thing, and it always hurt to try extinguishing the fire. Akira’s been burned too many times.

_“I’m a shapeshifter, have no face to show— Please don’t take off my mask, revealing dark..”_

But that voice was so familiar, so _sweet_. Nothing else could come close to the easy, pleasant alto he had once been surrounded by, nothing else could make the hairs at the back of Akira’s neck stand in the same way.

The “ _noose_ ” around his neck tightened.

Should he turn around? Did Akira even _want_ to turn around? Did he want to test the flames once again, feel that bullet strike through his heart in the aftermath of disappointment?

Akira downed the rest of his drink, near-slamming the glass back onto the wooden counter. Tonight’s bartender looked questioningly at him once the sound echoed just below the music, decided to retrieve his glasses and probably deny Akira any more— And that was for the best, maybe, because Akira needed to get home before he made more mistakes to be regretted tomorrow.

He staggered once finding the strength to actually _stand up_ , no doubt the liquor flowing through his bloodstream taking effect at long last. There wasn’t much to fear about getting home, though, because Akira knew his way around Tokyo like the back of his hand— But when it came to matters about his head and his heart, it was like stumbling in the dark with a blindfold on.

Because he didn’t know why he did it; He had no goddamn clue why he didn’t even _think_ about not doing it. All he knew was that he’d been halfway to the exit and his eyes caught on brunette locks, like mocha and caramel melting together. They swayed, oh so gently, with each time the singer had bobbed his head to the beat of the music, eyes closed as he floated amongst the melodies. Standing there, with the microphone held in his gloveless hands, he looked _ethereal_ in the way nothing and no one else could, for Akira could swear that he was watching an angel in the flesh singing the most heart-wrenching heart song for there to exist.

_“I can’t tell you how to see me, just a cage of bones— there’s nothing inside,”_

Maybe it was just someone that looked awfully similar.

_“Will it unleash me, burning down the walls?”_

Maybe it was just the longer hair that did it.

_“Is there a way for me to break?”_

Maybe Akira was just shitfaced drunk.

But he stood there, hands balling into fists within his pockets, and he could already feel the tears brimming at the corners of his eyes because fuck, _fuck_ , **_fuck_** that man looked just _like_ him. That singer _sounded_ just like him. Akira just needed to see his eyes and then _maybe_ he’ll believe that Goro Akechi was still alive and—

_“Please don’t take off my mask, my disguise.”_

Oh.

Oh, fuck _him_ , he guessed.

Akira ran straight out the door.

_WHAT ARE YOU DOING—_

He had no fucking idea.

_THAT WAS HIM! THAT CAN’T POSSIBLY BE ANY OTHER PERSON!_

Look, he _knew_ , okay?!

_SO WHY DID YOU RUN AWAY?!_

Because he was a _coward_!

Akira held his head in his hands, slumping against the wall beside the jazz bar’s entrance. The world spun around him as he tried to keep himself at least somewhat upright, head pounding already with the drunkenness taking over him. Caught in the argument between him and the voice in his head, he hadn’t even _realised_ how hard he slammed the door to the bar’s entrance closed during his great escape— Much less heard the noises that’d still hummed within, nor how the entrance had creaked open, just ever so slightly, once more.

All he knew was that his head swam with too many thoughts and too many words, that he was falling over trying to push himself off the wall before whoever came to check up on him could utter even a single word, that he was slowly, _surely_ , climbing up the steps out of there and that he was almost slipping on some but _goddammit_ , he was going to get outta dodge as soon as was humanly possible and—

“ _OH SHIT—!”_

—And then he slipped.

“ _AKIRA!”_

And yes, he could’ve died on that staircase right then and there. _Yes_ , he was vaguely aware of the numbness forming from his forehead— But Akira was too tired to care and too drunk to think. Even the figure hovering above him already looked like a dark blurb of shadows and hands flying too fast for him to catch.

Strangely enough, he didn’t feel at all alarmed. The presence felt comfortable, what he saw (through blurry vision, anyway) was akin to one-too-many mornings in Leblanc’s attic spent waking up with someone he used to call his lover.

Ah, those hands were warm, almost to the point of hot to the touch, just like Goro’s. Akira vaguely felt himself nuzzle into the palms pressed against his cheeks, the ones that were checking him for any other injury.

“Are you hurt?”

_Only in my heart, baby._

Instead of saying that, though, he’d only chuckle weakly at the thought. The punchline never left his lips.

“Stay with me..” he heard, but it also could’ve been a _“get out of here”_ for all he knew.

He couldn’t really think.

Actually, with his head being placed on a familiar-feeling lap, he was getting awfully sleepy.

Akira decided to give into the consciousness fading from him.

“Stay with me, come on..”

_Sorry._

* * *

He liked to think that love wasn’t something that was completely out of reach.  
He liked to think that love, at least, was the one pure thing he was ( _maybe_ ) still capable of having. He liked to imagine that he would, maybe _one day_ , feel the telltale skip of the heart, the supposed butterflies swarming his stomach, the warmth of another saved solely for him— But he’s been awake for a solid four hours after laying down in his bed now, and he hasn’t moved to the point that his muscles had long cramped over. His gaze was trained only on the ceiling of his dreary, mostly-empty bedroom, and his chest felt hollower than it usually did.

Maybe it was the fact that he was trying to sleep just _feet_ away from the one person he didn’t want to see.

It was hard enough to come to terms with the fact that he felt something hot and heavy in his core for Akira Kurusu. It was hard enough to allow himself a few moments of slipping away from the reality of his life for the sake of playing make-believe. It was especially hard (a cruel amount of difficulty, really) to let the fire burn at his fingertips.

And it was nothing less than _torture_ to allow the flame into his heart. He thought that maybe this _love_ thing wasn’t for him.

As a child, his mother had once read him the story of the red string of fate— The old tale of an invisible red string flowing from your pinkie and out into the world, only to end in a knot tied to another person out there. Though the string may tangle or stretch, Fate would ensure that the two would find each other, as destiny has already written their futures for them. Frankly, he thought that it was bullshit.

Akira Kurusu seemed like the type of person to believe in such bullshit, though.

It was maybe what made him so enamoured with the other, what made him drawn to the quiet boy with dark curls and eyes even blacker than the void of space itself. He wasn’t able to sleep anyway, so he thought it was worth it to at least let his mind wander, let his thoughts drift to the implications that _if_ he did believe this so-called red string of fate existed, maybe it was what made him bond so strongly to the barista.

Imagine _him_ , the realist, always-too-serious, forever-stoic killer hiding under the guise of a charming Detective Prince, thinking that something like an invisible, red rope guided him to a future with some nobody that was only sent to the city because of a probation and a criminal record— But it was still fitting. Someone like him, a killer who drowned in a sea of blood, fated to be with attic trash that was only in Tokyo because he assaulted someone. It was almost funny.

 _Almost_.

For a second, he let himself believe that he was a puzzle piece that fitted next to someone else, that he could still find the one who’d fill the hole where his heart had turned to dust— Fantasies ( _memories_ ) of quaint afternoons and passionate nights, of mornings waking beside a boy with pretty lashes and love saved for him, of stolen kisses and sweet nothings whispered into his ear. It almost felt tangible to him, then, as he laid alone and reminisced on what he’d lived through for those sweet, fleeting few months— The life that he let go, swept away the moment a gunshot rang in his ears. Amidst the too-loud quiet of his studio apartment, he’d remember (in such vivid detail) how the _BANG_ echoed _so much **louder**_ within the confining, concrete walls of an interrogation room, how deafening it was amongst the _CLANG_ of engines and the _CRASH_ of a cognitive sea’s waves.

Yeah, _no_. If there was an invisible rope tied to him, it was around his neck.

His eyes squeezed shut, bared hands coming over to cover them. Though he’d stood in the shower for more than an hour earlier, there was (as there _always_ was) still something dirty that clung to him, tainting his skin, crawling to his core and making him writhe atop the bedsheets. It was only after a while did he realise that he curled into himself, was shaking because of the hushed, choked sobs that rasped out his throat.

The rest of those nights (those nights he’d shot Akira Kurusu in the head and had a bullet pierce through his dark costume,) and during the ones that came after, he’d find himself in the exact same position: hands grasping at air and splayed above his bed— only searching for a body he’d become too familiar with, that wasn’t there.  
And now, that same body was laying on his couch, right after Goro had dragged it through the jazz bar and up two flights of stairs. He had the choice of slapping Akira awake—an attempt to make him go home on his own—and because that failed, he’d run out of options. He didn’t know where Akira lived now, was surprised to find that he was still even in _Tokyo_ , and because getting him back all the way to Leblanc sounded like too much of a gamble, there was no other place to store his unconscious figure until the sun rose.

Goro regretted it, truth be told. It was getting harder and harder to sleep with all the memories crawling back into his brain, of the temptation to carry Akira over to the free space on his bed and play make-believe just one, last time.

What would he even say when the other awoke? Sure, Goro could just hide (again) once Akira woke up and decided to leave the apartment, but there was a feeling in his gut that told him Akira Kurusu wouldn’t just up and go. He knew about Akira’s steadfast determination, the will that never gave up on anything he set his eyes on. Sooner or later, he’d come back to the jazz bar and it would be on a night Goro worked there— it was only a matter of time until he found Goro again.

Honestly, Goro loved that about him (just one of the many, _many_ things) but he couldn’t suppress the groan that rumbled in his throat at the man’s resolve.

The sound still echoed into the air of his apartment (the only place he could maybe call _home_ , when he’s been living here for the past three years) even after he’d shut up— and Goro would come to sit, eyes focusing on the couch in the darkness, right as a dark figure pushed itself up from the uncomfortable cushions.

He decided to wipe any remnants of his crying off of his face.

The air was all but silent as Akira’s head turned, left then right, before he stopped upon seeing the single glass of water and the painkiller set atop the coffee table. Goro himself had pulled his legs up to his chest—a sort of protective barrier—as he watched the other man swallow the painkiller and down the water in one, two gulps, all before he set the glass back down upon Goro’s coffee table and placed his feet upon the living room carpet.

With a hand to his head, Akira groaned once more, and all Goro could do was sit in silence and keep his eyes on him, stilled as if Akira wouldn’t notice him soon enough. His lips pursed into a tight line across his cheeks and his eyes drowned in the anxiety the more he waited, the longer the quiet stretched between them, _the more that Akira hadn't uttered a single word or made a single move._

 _Fuck_.

That was one way to put it.

“Honey, I’m home,” Akira called out, his words slurring together and his voice tired, as he shrugged out of his coats lazily and let them fall to the floor.

“Is that really all you’re going to say?”

He saw how the other had frozen mid-shrug upon the sound of his voice. Akira turned his head, spotting where it had come from not long after. Though he still looked as messy and drunk as he was just hours before, Goro could still spot that clarity blooming in his eyes, the stunned widen, the almost defeated way they closed.

“There’s not much else _to_ say, is there?”

Goro supposed that was true.

In a moment, Akira had stood, just swaying to one side briefly before he balanced himself on his feet. Goro wouldn’t have been surprised if he headed out the door right then and there (disregarding the jackets he left on Goro’s floor) but when Akira began taking step after slow step towards him on the bed, Goro found himself _cowering_ into the headboard, back pressing against the pillows and trying to get as far away as possible.

“No.”

Akira kept going.

“ _Stop_.”

Akira reached the foot of his bed.

“Akira—”

And, though he nearly fell again whilst putting a knee to the futon, Akira Kurusu reached over and placed a hand upon Goro’s cheek, lips meeting his not too long after.

He tasted like alcohol, moved sloppily in his hungover state, but Goro still felt the desperation all the same as Akira kissed him— He felt it in the way the hand on his cheek tensed, fingers curling just a bit; He felt it in the way the man above him had shook, the way he trembled as he struggled to keep himself balanced with a knee and a hand on the bed.

He felt the desperation when Akira had pulled away, for just millimetres, before Goro chased him back with the same, pure _need_ he mirrored from Akira’s own.

There was a moment or three of silence after they’d both pulled away, noses grazing over each other’s, eyes wide open and staring at one another as if the other would disappear, all too quickly, all too _suddenly_ again, if they didn't. Goro gripped the bedsheets like they were his lifelines, bunching them into his fists. His heart beat in double-time, head clouding with too many memories crashing down all at once, and before he knew it, he’d turned his head away as the first tear slipped from his eye.

As much as he fought against it, he couldn’t stop the dam from breaking loose.

“I thought you were dead.”

“It should’ve stayed that way.”

Akira settled onto the futon, sitting inches away from Goro, giving him the space he needed. For that, Goro was grateful, but the distance didn’t do much to quell the anxiety that clawed at him from within his stomach.

He needed to run.

And yet, the way Akira looked at him kept Goro rooted to the spot.

“I..” Akira gulped, sounding so heavy that it made Goro shift, just a bit, as he attempted (desperately) to wipe away the tears, “I _mourned_ you.”

“I never asked for your pity.”

The words had cut into the air before he could even think to respond, and one look at Akira told him that it was exactly what he expected to hear. Though the other’s voice had remained quiet, and though Akira himself had averted his eyes, there was still a weight that hit Goro full-force across the face once Akira’s lips parted once more.

“Exactly..”

Akira shook his head, and yet he still, when he settled, his eyes had found Goro’s again and Goro was captivated— if not because of how he realised how absolutely _exhausted_ Akira Kurusu looked, then because of how those dark, dark eyes had always known how to capture him, sweep him into a storm and keep him there.

He looked older, as inevitable as it was. His hair was shorter than Goro last remembered it, an undercut sitting beneath the curly locks that ended just by his ears; His jaw looked sharper, face matured, more _man_ than _boy_ now; But those eyes.. Those eyes still beheld the shine that Goro had more than once lost himself in, the same earnest and honesty that he questioned yet found himself enamoured with all in the same breath.

“It was never pity,” Akira sighed, lips tugging down into a small frown, “It was because I _loved_ you.”

 _Loved_.

How painful of a word.

“I didn’t mourn you all these years because I wanted some stamp of approval that we helped you, I just—”

Again, that shake of the head, like he was trying to find the exact right words to use. Goro always hated the way he did that, though Akira never seemed to think anything he said over when it came to him, in direct— At least, not until now.

He wondered why that was. Why did Akira Kurusu look like he was trying to save the entire world again, when all he was doing was talking to him?

“I didn’t know what to do when I lost you.”

“It’s been _three years_.”

Fuck, was the air uncomfortable. This entire _thing_ was. Goro hated every second he spent in that moment, sitting with Akira again, _talking to him_. Akira was supposed to think he was still dead so he could move on with his goddamn life already. Goro wasn’t going to bring anything good to him because, in case either of them forgot, he was supposed to be behind bars for all the cruelty, and pain, and downright _misery_ done by his hand.

Staying dead would’ve been better than living in that moment, because Goro should’ve been done repenting with his sacrifice.

But that wasn’t how life worked. Life was never so simple, never so clear-cut and easy. Whatever Gods existed up there in the Heavens just so _loved_ to torture him for sport.

“Three years would never be anywhere _close_ to making me forget about you.”

_Stop it._

“Three years wouldn’t stop me from thinking about you every goddamn _day_.”

_That isn’t **right**. _

“Three years wouldn’t be enough to make me stop loving you.”

 _Fuck_.

There it was.

Loving Akira Kurusu was so much like a fire that it hurt. Goro was scorched into ashes already, wasn’t that _enough_?

The warmth above his hand even felt like a flame. As if burned, he flinched at the touch, closed his eyes upon seeing the melancholic way Akira’s features had fallen— and yet still, though he wanted to keep him away, it was one step forward and two steps back.

Because Goro grabbed onto that hand the moment Akira tried to pull it away. For what reason, he didn’t know. Maybe it was because he didn’t _want_ to know.

“Don’t tell me you still love me,” Goro muttered, tone pleading, face burying into his knees, “ _Please_ lie to me and say you don’t love me anymore, Akira Kurusu.”

But not even a second of silence had passed before Akira’s voice reached his ears, and the next thing Goro felt was a kiss pressing into his knuckles.

“I’m sorry.”

Akira slipped his fingers between the spaces of Goro’s own, properly holding his hand now, the way Goro always liked it. Goro would deny ever squeezing back, but the firmness of their hands grasping onto one another ( _refusing_ to let go) couldn’t have been one-sided.

“Maybe I could lie to anyone else, but not _you_.”

“You _shouldn’t_ ,” he countered, tone catching on a hard edge, like he was demanding, “You’re setting yourself up.”

The futon dipped, Akira’s weight no doubt edging closer to his side.

“I _know_.”

And then, his hair was being stroked.

“.. and I _will_.”

Goro peered up at him, still hiding behind whatever protection his knees could give. He felt how his breath caught in his throat, how his voice feeling as if it died on the spot.  
Akira was right beside him then, their hands still joined, and yet that was their only point of contact. Though the other had leaned towards Goro, he looked as if he held himself back twicefold, didn’t want to cross the rest of the gap— more like he was _scared_ to, maybe, because if Akira Kurusu was scared of this, then Goro Akechi was _terrified_.

Even still, Goro didn’t stop himself from bridging the rest of the way, for whatever lie and excuse he could come up in his head— because he’d pushed himself closer until their legs touched and he was mere centimetres away from Akira’s lips, just hovering there, hesitant, _scared._

“Tell me you want this,” Akira mumbled, so quietly that Goro had just _barely_ caught it. He glanced down upon the other’s lips, how they were left parted, ready to accept what Goro would give with just a small push and a lot of willpower.

His voice shook, a shuddering breath leaving him.

“You’re asking me to burn myself again.”

When they looked at each other once more, Goro couldn’t tear his gaze away. He was transfixed, bound to Akira, and it was strange: The feeling of being scared and deliberately pushing himself to the edge was strange.

“Burn with me. I _need_ to feel you burning me to the ground.”

And maybe it was the sheer desperation in Akira’s voice, but Goro couldn’t lie to himself either.

_One last time.._

Goro closed the gap between their lips.

They’d burned brilliantly that night, with voices that echoed off the apartment walls and hands that left scorch marks where they wandered. The way they slipped into each other was as natural as the tides of the sea, as the stars in the sky: Akira’s fingers still knew the topography of his body, and Goro still knew the notes which made Akira hum in bliss. As the sun rose, so too did their tired bodies fall.

It was as if they were two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly with each other, laying there as Akira held Goro and Goro felt the warmth he’d so missed encompassing his entire frame. Breathless, heaving, that noose tightened around his neck— and yet Goro let it, for he was a selfish human with too many desires.

“You don’t need to explain everything now, not even tomorrow..” Akira had murmured, so assuredly, so _lovingly_ , “I’d wait for you to the end.”

With a final kiss pressed to the back of his head, Akira gave in to the tug of slumber. For a bit, Goro could only listen as the other’s breathing slowed, evened out, fanned through his lips with a fading _“I still love you”_ dying on his tongue.

Goro Akechi truly did drown in the sea of his love.

He was only sorry for being the bullet that pierced his heart.

For when Akira Kurusu had awoken late into the afternoon, he’d find that the bed was empty, and the sheets had long gone cold. The apartment was left without a single soul aside from his, and beside him, stuck to the pillow which he clutched close to his chest, was a single note.

He ran around Tokyo to find him.

And his search would prove fruitless.

Because the news would later report the arrest of one Goro Akechi that day, and all Akira could do was keep the note with him, cry in the quiet of his attic, and read the words over and over, as if they were lies that could never become truth.

_You shouldn’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H O O BO Y THAT WAS  
> A RIDE  
> first big bang ever baybeeeeeee let's GO 
> 
> imma admit i was boo boo the fool to think i would ever use the "angst with a happy/hopeful ending" tag LMAO  
> i'll never let the boys be happy
> 
> anywho, if you didn't get here though [hel's AMAZING art](https://twitter.com/hellohelss/status/1293263548592852992?s=21) from twitter, go check it out !! it's so g o o d like i cried when i saw it i s2g askjdfdf 
> 
> you're amazing hels <33 thank you so much for working with me on this !!!!


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